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August 14th 2006
Hermione should’ve taken the main street.
She knew it the second the man lurched out of the shadows, blocking the narrow mouth of the alley. His breath reeked of cheap alcohol, sour and heavy in the night air. The faint gleam of a knife caught the dim light as he twirled it lazily in one hand.
Her wand was already clenched in her fist, knuckles white, but panic clogged her throat and froze her tongue. Spell, Hermione, any spell— but nothing came.
“Joli petit touriste,” the man drawled, eyes raking over her. He staggered a step closer, the knife flashing again. “Je parie que papa a de l'argent, hein ? Donne-moi le sac.”
Her heartbeat roared in her ears. She tried to back away, only to feel the rough brick scrape her shoulders. No escape. The alley was too narrow, too dark. Her stomach lurched, cold and sick, as the man grinned and reached for her strap.
Hermione’s grip trembled on her wand. She opened her mouth—Stupefy, say Stupefy!—but the word snagged, trapped by terror. For the first time since she’d learned magic, she couldn’t force the spell out.
The man’s hand brushed her sleeve. She flinched—
—and another shadow dropped from above, hitting the pavement with a predatory thud.
The drunk had only enough time to swear before the newcomer moved: a blur of fists, the sickening crack of bone, the knife clattering to the cobblestones. The man folded with a grunt, collapsing at her feet.
Hermione froze, chest heaving, her wand useless at her side. The attacker groaned on the ground. The rescuer straightened, shaking out his hand with a hissed curse.
“Dammit.”
Hermione blinked. The stranger was American, well built, with a bow strapped across his back and a glare that could peel paint. More importantly, his fingers were bent at angles that made her stomach flip.
“You broke them,” she blurted.
“No kidding.” He cradled his hand, scowling like it was somehow her fault. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Oh. His answer matched the words inked on the ball of her palm, their grey colour marking him as a rare platonic soulmate.
“I didn’t ask you to jump in!” she snapped, adrenaline still buzzing. “I had it under control.”
He snorted. “Sure, sweetheart. Looked like it.” Her temper flared—but so did her conscience at the pain etched in his jaw. Without thinking, she grabbed his wrist. He stiffened instantly, free hand twitching toward the knife at his hip.
“Hold still,” she muttered, raising her wand. The statute of secrecy didn’t apply to soulmates.
“What the—”
“Episkey,” she whispered. A soft glow wrapped his fingers, tugging bone and tendon back into place.
The man flexed his hand. No break. No pain. He stared. “How the hell—”
“I’m a witch,” Hermione said, chin lifting. “Yes, wand, magic, all of that.”
He blinked once. Twice. Then huffed a laugh. “Sure. Why not?” Hermione spotted his own grey soulmark, lying exactly over the break she’d just healed.
He caught her looking. “What are you doing out here by yourself, kid?”
“I’m sixteen,” she snapped.
“Exactly my point.” He slid the knife back into its sheath. “What the hell are you doing alone?”
“I can take care of myself!”
“Sure. And yet here I am, saving your life.”
Her nostrils flared. “I had it under control!”
“Sweetheart,” he said flatly, “he had a knife.” Her retort died. His smirk said he knew it.
Finally, she crossed her arms. “Well…thank you. For stepping in.”
His expression softened, just a fraction. He held out his newly healed hand. “Clint.”
She hesitated—then shook it. “Hermione.” And after a moment, she tightened her grip. “Come on.”
Clint frowned, tugging back. “Whoa. Where are we going?”
“My hotel,” she said briskly, already dragging him toward the street. “My parents will want to meet you.”
“Your parents?” His voice jumped. “Kid, we just met.”
“You’re my soulmate,” Hermione shot back, holding up her hand so he could see her own grey soulmark. “Platonic, obviously, but still. They’ll want to know. And besides”—she eyed his hand—“I healed you. The least you can do is humour me.”
He dug in his heels. “I don’t do family introductions.”
“You do now,” she said primly, hauling him like an unruly shopping bag.
“Unbelievable,” Clint muttered. “I save you from getting stabbed and somehow I’m the one getting punished.”
“Meeting my parents isn’t a punishment,” Hermione scoffed. “They’re perfectly lovely.”
“That’s what everyone says before they unleash the terrifying dad with the shotgun.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hermione sniffed. “My father’s a dentist.”
Clint side-eyed her. “Yeah, and somehow that sounds worse.”
By the time they reached the hotel lobby, Hermione still hadn’t let go of his hand. The receptionist gawked at them—Hermione rumpled, Clint armed to the teeth—but she swept past without pause.
At her parents’ suite, she released him long enough to smooth her hair. “Try to look presentable.”
Clint snorted. “Sweetheart, this is presentable.” The door opened before she could retort. Jean Granger blinked at the sight of her daughter holding a stranger by the wrist.
“Mum,” Hermione said quickly, “this is Clint. He’s my soulmate.”
Jean blinked once. Twice. Looked at Clint.
He raised a stiff, awkward hand. “Uh. Hi?”
From inside, Daniel Granger’s voice called, “Who’s at the door, love?”
“My soulmate!” Hermione answered brightly.
There was a loud choking noise, followed by a muffled, “Your what?”
Clint groaned under his breath. “Told you. Shotgun dad.”